Mr. Keeney's Afternoon

It is the year 2061. For many years, the city of Sprawlsville had been plagued by seemingly unsolvable problems relating to its size and unmanageable rate of growth. Sprawlsville's metropolitan area, the SMA, is home to seventy-eight million people. The annual birth rate of around forty-five-per-thousand-people yields an additional three and a half million little citizens each year. Migration from surrounding rural areas annually adds another million impoverished job-seekers. The official plan for the city, dating back to the middle of the first decade of the twenty-first century, prohibits continuing expansion into surrounding fertile farmland, forcing population density upward, and resulting in a concrete jungle of spectacularly tall apartment towers. International immigration was shut down long ago, but forced birth control and regulation of internal migration are made impossible by the country's constitution, so for a while, the situation seemed hopeless. However, for the past ten years, the metropolis has enjoyed economic and social stability unrivaled by cities even half its size.

In the year 2051, the municipal government initiated a system for controlling the size of the population, whose growth, and resulting social problems, were by then threatening to plunge the city into chaos.

Early proposals for a system of population control included a scheme in which helicopters would hover about in the skies above the city, randomly shooting a prescribed number of citizens daily, as is done in controlling some animal populations. However, the impracticality of this approach was its doom, after only a few days of debate at city council. To keep the population steady, four-and-a-half million people would need to be eliminated annually, or over twelve thousand per day, on average. One of the main objections to the helicopter proposal was that this would result in too many bodies being scattered around the metropolitan area at all times, turning into a logistical nightmare any effort to deal with collection and disposal of bodies, especially in light of the gridlock that the city's streets permanently suffered from. An attempt to address this objection was made by altering the proposal to focus on flash shooting sprees, where large numbers would be eliminated by a surprise attacks on crowded areas. That way, only a small and manageable number of cleanup interventions would be needed. However, other problems with the proposal remained. Some councillors brought up the issue of possible property damage from stray bullets, with so much shooting going on from relatively large distances. Another objection was to the possibility of individuals on crucial assignments being eliminated prematurely by a flash depopulation.

Everyone agreed that a more organized system was needed. What was finally decided on was a system of deactivation centres, where individuals would voluntarily go to be extinguished upon being semi-randomly selected by computer, and receiving timely notification. Deactivation centres could be spread around the city, enabling selectees to check into a centre in their own neighbourhood. This way, collection and disposal cease to be complicated issues, and can even be handled by municipal waste services. Local centres would also have the further benefit of decreasing road congestion, as selectees could take local public transit or in some cases even walk to the appropriate centre.

After ten years in operation, the system has resulted in unprecedented progress in the city. The urban rennaisance that ensued after its implementation has turned the SMA into an urban centre envied worldwide for its record-setting economic growth, cultural revival, and technological progress.


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Mr. Keeney works for a software company on the outer edge of the SMA. He comes into work at nine every morning, works at his computer until noon, lunches downstairs in the company dining area between noon and one o'clock, returns to his desk, and works until five o'clock sharp. At that time he leaves to catch a commuter train to another peripheral area of the city, where he resides in a small but cozy apartment on the fifty-second floor of a highrise.

Mr. Keeney doesn't associate much with his co-workers. He has always been shy and withdrawn, which is only made worse by the excessive forwardness of most of his colleagues. They enjoy making loud jokes about things Mr. Keeney finds offensive, and passionately discussing things about which Mr. Keeney has no knowledge and for which he has no interest, such as the current goings-on on various television entertainment shows. Mr. Keeney prefers to say good morning to them when he enters and "have a nice evening" when he leaves, and leave it at that. He works hard, likes his peace and quiet, and respects the peace and quiet of others. He always puts away objects that he makes use of, always cleans up behind himself, and subconsciously always makes an effort to make the least amount of noise possible when walking, or doing anything else. Most of his spare time he spends reading books or listening to obscure classical music. He is seen by most who know him, and they are few and far apart, as strange and asocial, and by some as downright creepy.

Mr. Keeney's employer received a deactivation notice for Mr. Keeney over a month ago. According to convention, the municipal population planning board sends the notices to employers of individuals to be deactivated, and not the individuals themselves. This is done after they've been semi-randomly selected, at least a month before the deactivation is to take place. The practice ensures that business is not disrupted by the termination, and that the company in question has enough time to reorganize its staff, and get the most out of the soon-to-be-deactivated employee over his final month of employment. It is then up to the employer to notify the individual of his or her pending deactivation at a suitable and convenient time. Normally, the employee is notified at least a week before deactivation, to provide enough time to arrange for property transfers and similar bureaucratic work resulting from a pending death.

In the case of Mr. Keeney, however, due certainly to his detachment from others in the company, the notice was completely forgotten about and left sitting around for over a month. Mr. Dougal, Mr. Keeney's boss, was abruptly reminded of it today only because he received a message from the company's automated human resources management system warning him that Mr. Keeney's desk will be vacant as of tomorrow, with nobody in line to claim it yet. This, it was understood, was a waste of company resources. The situation was sensitive to say the least, even for a hardened businessman like Mr. Dougal. Not only would he have to scramble to hire a new employee for Mr. Keeney's position, he would also have to tell Mr. Keeney immediately that he would not be going home after work, but must instead report directly to his neighbourhood deactivation centre. What a mess! But nothing can be done about it now. Mr. Dougal quickly opened an employee deactivation notice template, filled in Mr. Keeney's name and a few other bits of information, and sent it to his desktop computer. That's all there was to it, and there was lots of other business to attend to.

Mr. Keeney received the message a fraction of a second later. Almost immediately, he recognized the dreaded subject line: "NOTICE OF EMPLOYEE DEACTIVATION". He froze. He couldn't believe that this was happening, it still hadn't quite hit him yet. Slowly, it began to sink in. He stared at the message header, and couldn't help but start quietly sobbing and sniffing. Some of the co-workers in neighbouring cubicles began shuffling about, reacting no doubt to sounds he was emitting. He forced himself to stop a few seconds later, as such behaviour was unheard of in these situations. The deactivee was expected to accept his fate and calmly begin planning for it. Mr. Keeney was never much of a trouper.

After regaining his composure slightly, Mr. Keeney opened the message contents. His eyes scanned for a date, and found one, under the heading "DEACTIVATION DATE." The date was today's. Below it was the time. It was seven o'clock in the evening. Mr. Keeney could contain himself no longer and let go an audible yelp of horror. A few of his neighbours giggled, still clicking away at their keyboards. The sobs and yelps could only mean one thing. "De-action, eh Keeney?" shouted Mr. Robson, a loudmouth from the other side of the work area. "That's a bummer, buddy!" Everyone giggled and snorted. "When is the big day, there, ol' pal?" he continued. Mr. Keeney breathed deeply, looked down at his desk, and quietly said "today." The giggles exploded into laughter. Some of the women were laughing in high-pitched squeals and snorting like piggies. The men laughed heartily at the top of their lungs. "That's a BIG bummer, buddy!" Riotous laughter all around.

Mr. Keeney was furious. He assumed that the notice was deliberately kept from him until the last minute, because he had always suspected that his colleagues disliked him. "This isn't funny at all! It is very very mean!" he screamed. The laughter rose to new heights of frenzy. Mr. Keeney felt like throwing his computer on the floor and running out of the building. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He just didn't have a violent nature, and there were two and a half more hours to go before the end of his workday. So he just sat there, waiting for the laughter to die down. He thought of his mother, who had died naturally a few years earlier. She was the last person who cared whether Mr. Keeney lived or died. His father had died when he was a teenager. There was nobody and nothing else. Only his books, and his music, waiting in vain at home.

Mr. Keeney sat there for the remaining two and a half hours. Laughter had stopped after a few minutes, and it was back to business as usual for everyone but Mr. Keeney. He just sat and stared, angry at first, and then increasingly peaceful. He thought of his childhood. He thought of how when he was learning to ride a bicycle at the age of six, his father ran behind him, holding the bike seat and balancing the bicycle while struggling not to fall down himself, as he had a bad leg. There they were, a young Mr. Keeney screaming with joy on the tiny bicycle he was successfully riding for the first time, and his smiling father, speed-limping behind him with his hand on the base of the seat. That was Mr. Keeney's perfect day.

The last hour at work, between four o'clock and five o'clock in the
afternoon, was the first time Mr. Keeney had ever been truly at peace. He was sitting back in his chair and looking down at the desk, with his arms crossed in front of him, vaguely smiling and with tears in his eyes. For the first time in his life, since the day he learned to ride a bicycle, he was truly happy. At five o'clock, he ceremoniously turned off his computer monitor, stood up, and said "Good-bye, everyone!" "Try not to poop your pants, there, big boy!" was Mr. Robson's well-intentioned reply from the other end of the workspace. Everyone giggled, including Mr. Keeney. He slowly walked toward the door leading outside. He opened it, stepped outside, put his hat on, and slowly closed the door behind him, trying to make the least amount of noise possible.